


All Handsy

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the boys drink, and Sam gets all handsy and uber affectionate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Handsy

Sam gets all handsy when he's drunk. 

Dean had forgotten. It's been like, years since the two of them have gotten drunk together. What with fighting the Lord's cavalry and the Devil's minions, and more recently the man-eating spawn of purgatory, they've been a little busy. 

Years without something will make you forget. 

Dean remembers now, though. He remembers how Sam's hands wander and how his face so openly displays all of his affection when he's been drinking, when he's uninhibited. There's this little inkling in the far recesses of Dean's mind about something else that he's supposed to remember, but the tingling deep in his gut is too distracting. 

"Dean." Sam throws an arm around Dean's shoulder. "Dean, c'mere. Wanna show you something." 

So Dean slides his bar stool closer, peers across the leftover space between them at Sam's laptop. 

"Shojos," Sam says, as he squeezes Dean's arm and points at the screen with his other. "Scary bitches. And dangerous." 

"No shit." 

When Sam leans in too close while trying to explain exactly _why_ shojos are so dangerous and almost falls off his chair, Dean decides that's enough. "Let's get a move on, Sammy."

The walk back to the motel is relatively painless. Painless, except for how Dean's skin sparks whenever Sam touches him—a flash of electricity pinging across the back of his hand when Sam's brushes his, a jolt up his spine when Sam palms his lower back during an attempt to steady himself, a searing flare of heat across the back of his neck when Sam's arm rests upon it as they stumble through the parking lot. 

Dean slams the door of the motel room behind them, and Sam turns to face him. 

There's worry creasing Sam's features now and his dimples are gone, replaced by the unhappy kind of furrows. "What's wrong?"

Dean's at a loss. Nothing's _wrong_. He's just realizing that he's afraid all of a sudden—no, make that terrified—that now that they're back in their room, just the two of them, it'll be all normal. No more laughing, no more drinking, no more touching. 

So he goes with that. "Nothing's wrong." Sam tips his head to the side like he does when he's getting ready to object. "Seriously, Sam. Just, now that we're back here, got you safe from falling on your ass, I say let's keep the party going."

Sam's dimples are back. 

Dean grabs a fifth of something dark and cheap from his duffle. He sits on the nearest bed, and when Sam sits down next to him, he takes three chugs in one before handing the bottle to Sam. 

"You trying to get me drunk, Dean?" Sam takes a swig.

"Trying to get you to keep up, s'all."

When Sam passes the bottle back to Dean, their fingers meet. Sam's are warm—who's Dean kidding, Sam's always been an overheated son of a bitch—and it feels good. 

"Hey," Sam says as he wraps his fingers around Dean's. 

The whiskey falls to the floor when Sam leans in and Dean twines his fingers around Sam's.


End file.
